


in space hangs my heart

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Feelings Realization, Getting Together, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, IN SPACE!, Kissing, M/M, Neck Kissing, Peter Parker Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26052562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: “Sorry, Pete, that wasn’t fair. I’m sure the raccoon taught you very well.”Which, yeah. That’s a sentence he just said moments before the teen who once destroyed the Staten Island Ferry flies them into space. Fuck. Why did he agree to this, again?Or: Peter and Tony go on a mission in space. It does not go as planned.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 36
Kudos: 321
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	in space hangs my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chelicerata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelicerata/gifts).



> Thank you for supporting a great cause <3 And thank you to tuesday for being an amazing beta!
> 
>  **Note on the AU:** This is set in a world that is canon compliant through IW, but AU after that. Assume Thanos was defeated without the five year gap (and therefore no babies-ever-after in the woods for Tony/Pepper), and without any of the team dying or going back in time forever (because it is my world and I say so). The rest should become obvious.
> 
>  **CNTW** only because some of the hurt Peter's suffer might not be for the very squeamish. Peter is 18 and no other major archive warnings apply.
> 
> Title from the poem [“On Foot I Had to Cross the Solar System” by Edith Sodergran](https://allpoetry.com/On-Foot-I-Had-to-Cross-the-Solar-System).

Tony stares at the spaceship. It’s not very big, for something that’s supposed to take them across the galaxy. In fact, he’d say it looks downright flimsy. Rickety.

Unsafe.

“Are we sure this thing is fit to fly? Absolutely, one-hundred percent positive?”

Fury emerges from the craft, smirking as he strides down the ramp that unfurls from its open door. “If it isn’t, you’ll have to take it up with management. Oh wait, that’s you.”

For someone who claims to be all about subtlety and spy-craft, that man sure does love to make an entrance. Tony resists rolling his eyes. He promised himself he’d play a little nicer on his second crack at being part of the team. Or is this his third crack? The Avengers have dissolved and reconfigured and literally been ripped in two so many times, he’s not sure how to keep count.

“I know you’re trying to appeal to my ego, Popeye, but given my track record with spaceships, I’m not sure that’s reassuring.”

Out of nowhere, Peter’s voice breaks into the conversation, echoing from a distance. “Relax, Mr. Stark.”

Tony spins to see Peter jogging towards them across the massive hangar. He’s definitely far enough away that he only heard that little exchange because of his powers, but he quickly covers the room in long bounds. His approach is startlingly beautiful; Tony still isn’t used to the easy, efficient way he moves after a few years of training with Sam and Steve. 

Sometimes Tony thinks the time he spent in recovery, recluse from the world, was good for Peter. It hurt not to see him as often as before Thanos tore the universe apart and Tony’s body to shreds—hurt more than Tony can fully explain—but look how much better he is for being taken under someone else’s wing. The rest of the Avengers helped him grow into the hero Tony always knew he could be.

(All Tony ever did was get him killed.)

Peter slows to a confident stride as he pulls into normal speaking distance. “The ship is definitely one-hundred percent flight ready. I checked it over personally.”

“Ah yes, just what I was looking for, approval from the kid.”

Peter’s smile evaporates; hurt flashes across his face before he quickly replaces it with a determinedly neutral expression. “Sorry. I meant—I do know what I’m doing, Mr. Stark. It’s really fine.”

Fuck. He’s being an asshole, already. It’s not Peter’s fault that the idea of launching himself into the stars for the third time makes Tony want to hurl. He takes a deep breath before he says something sarcastic about the difference between flight simulators and the real thing. “I know. Sorry, Pete, that wasn’t fair. I’m sure the raccoon taught you very well.”

Which, yeah. That’s a sentence he just said moments before the teen who once destroyed the Staten Island Ferry flies them into space. Double fuck. Why did he agree to this, again?

“He did teach me very well, actually!” Peter agrees, brightening. “Rocket said I’m really good, and I don’t think he normally gives compliments.”

His tone suggests he’s completely mollified, but as he brushes by Tony he shoots him another defiant little glare, as if he knows he still has some doubts about his qualifications.

“He’s ready,” Fury says once Peter disappears into the ship, placing a surprisingly gentle hand on Tony’s shoulder. “The question is, are you?”

Well, no. Obviously not. What kind of question is that?

Tony peels Fury’s hand away in a show of feigned disdain. “Do you sometimes say semi-profound sounding bullshit to see if we’re too scared to call you out?”

“Do I need to remind you I’m going to be the one running comms on this mission? You _should_ be scared. Piss me off, maybe I leave you up there.”

Tony laughs. It’s strained, but it helps him relax, a little. “I’m just saying, you couldn’t have sent a professional to pilot?”

Fury inclines his head towards the ship. “He is a professional. That part wasn’t bullshit.” His mouth does something that, on someone else, might have resembled the beginning of a smile. “I know you’ve been out of commission for a bit, but trust me on this. Hell, trust you. You’re the one who picked him.”

Yeah, and the one who brought him to Titan, but hey, who’s counting?

Too late to back out now. He approaches the ramp, which stretches up, taunting, too much like walking the plank. He takes another deep breath. He’s being ridiculous. This whole thing is barely a step above a training mission. No genocidal purple aliens. No aliens of any kind. No room for things to go wrong.

“You’re fine,” he tells himself under his breath, stepping onto the sloping metal. The door to the ship suddenly seems impossibly high off the ground. “Nothing to worry about.”

***

By the time Tony makes his way to the cabin, Peter is already strapped in, busy flipping various switches and generally looking like he knows what he’s doing. It’s somewhere between comforting and completing disorienting.

“Hi,” Peter says, glancing over his shoulder with an uncertain smile as Tony enters. “Are you like…okay?”

“Fine,” Tony lies. “I’m just adjusting. I take a break for a year and a half, and suddenly you’re flying spaceships. I’m wrapping my brain around it.”

“Two years.”

“What?”

“Two years,” Peter repeats. He nods at the chair next to his, silently instructing Tony to sit. “That’s how long you were off the team. Buckle up.”

Well. Huh. Peter has been nothing but beaming since Tony got his head—and body—on straight enough to slip back into the suit, but maybe there’s some heretofore unexplored resentment lingering. Which is really excellent to discover as they’re about to head into the empty void, with nothing but themselves and this far-too-flimsy box around them, and—

And he is not having a panic attack in front of Peter. No way, no how. He’s back because he’s ready, he’s doing this because he’s ready. He’s _ready_.

He buckles up, forcing a grin that makes his jaw hurt. “Okay, Spider-Man, let’s see what you’ve got.”

***

Takeoff goes smoothly. As they rip through the outer atmosphere and into the nothing of space, Peter lets out a whoop so joyful, Tony finds himself grinning for real, no faking required.

“I did it!” Peter exclaims, quite literally bouncing in his seat, gesturing wildly at the stars scattered across their line of sight, through their window. “I flew us into space!”

Tony follows the movement and feels his smile flicker and die. Yep, he did: flew them right into the endless maw of the universe. He has to lick his lips twice before he can get his next words out.

“It’s a little worrying that a successful launch is a cause for celebration. What happened to getting top marks from the raccoon?”

It’s probably a sign of how thrilled Peter is that he continues to look excited rather than insulted. “I knew I could do it, but it’s still super cool. I mean, come on, Mr. Stark. _Space_.”

“Yeah, space.” There’s a fluttering in Tony’s throat that’s getting distinctly unpleasant. “Famously a place that has worked out super well for me.”

Peter is silent for a moment. And then, quietly, he says, “Oh.”

That’s it, one word, but it’s rich with understanding. He slides back in his chair, no longer bouncing.

They remain in silence, time crawling by heartbeat to heartbeat. Peter does something presumably helpful with the controls while Tony slumps, useless, body thrumming with a low-level panic he refuses to indulge. If he stares very hard at his knees and clenches his fingers into fists, he can stave off anything worse.

Peter breaks the quiet to inform Tony they’re going into hyperdrive soon. “That means that when I pull this”—he points at a lever—“we’re going to kick into autopilot and go really, really fast. I’ve plotted the course—well, actually, it was already plotted, but I’ve run the scanner to make sure no unexpected debris has come up, which it hasn’t, so that’s good. So, uh, I’m just going to let Fury know and then we’ll be good to go.”

Tony forces himself to look up, sliding his eyes past the expanse of stars to focus on Peter instead. “Kid, I’m sorry I implied you don’t know what you’re doing. I take it back. You’re good, I get it. You don’t have to narrate every step.”

“Yeah, I know,” Peter says with surprising confidence. To top it off, he shrugs nonchalantly. Tony’s not sure he’s ever seen him be nonchalant before. He wears it well. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I realized you wouldn’t have gotten on the ship if you didn’t trust me.”

“Then why the play-by-play?”

Peter’s cool breaks; he looks away, busing himself with the controls as a blush creeps up his cheeks. He leans forward and presses something on the panel. “I, um. I was just thinking that I know _I_ feel better when I understand what’s happening.”

Oh. He’s trying to comfort Tony, in a roundabout way.

That’s a hell of a thing.

Tony nods slowly, as if he’s seriously considering Peter’s words rather than grappling with the sudden and intense realization of how thoroughly he grew up while Tony was busy fucking off to deal with his demons.

“Sage wisdom, for a teenager.”

“Thanks.” Peter smiles, blush getting deeper, as if it’s the highest compliment. “I’m glad you don’t think I was being condescending or whatever.”

Oh, come on. Things have changed, but they haven’t changed _that_ much. “Kid, you have a long way to go before you can condescend to me.”

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I’m the one who’s flying a spaceship while _you_ stare at your knees.” Peter freezes as soon as he says it, eyes going wide. “Shit, was that too much? I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I meant it as a joke, I totally get why this is hard. That wasn’t fair, I shouldn’t—”

Tony feels another smile twitching at his lips, a real one, as Peter continues to stumble over his apology. “Kinda proving my point here, Pete. It’s hard to be condescending when you apologize immediately.”

“True.” Suddenly, Peter’s distressed expression turns into a smirk, like he’s in on a joke Tony missed. “And it’s hard for _you_ to freak out that we’re shunting into deep space if you’re distracted.”

Tony glances at the window and sees the stars have dissolved into a blur as they race away from Earth at a speed he doesn’t want to contemplate. He looks back at Peter, who’s still smirking. The little shit.

“Well played, Mr. Parker.” The smile fully forms, taking over Tony’s face and working its way to his brain; he can feel himself relax into the pleasure of being bested. “Very well played.”

***

Despite the efficacy of the distraction, staring at the blur of space continues to make Tony anxious, so he retreats to the back of the ship to check on their equipment, ignoring the way Peter’s face falls. He had clearly been hoping they could spend the journey catching up and Tony is failing him, again. 

The very fact that they have catching up to do makes Tony’s stomach twist with guilt. In his own defense, he didn’t abandon Peter completely during his recovery. At least, he didn’t think he did. He had him out to his cabin retreat once a month for lab sessions, which he thought was pretty good, considering that for at least the first year seeing Peter gave Tony panic attacks from remembering his body disintegrating in his arms. But clearly it wasn’t enough.

Well. Tony’s back in the city now, back on the team. He can make it up to Peter. Lab every week. Twice a week. As many times as he wants. Back to the old internship schedule. They can train together. It’ll be fine. Or so he tells himself as he obsessively goes through their tools, making sure everything is exactly where it should be, even though there is no possible universe in which Fury would have let this ship leave the ground if anything was out of place.

“We get there, we replace the broken transmitter, we get back,” he says out loud. “We go home, I take the kid to dinner to say sorry, everything is good, everyone is happy. This is the easiest mission in the history of missions.”

He starts going through the tools again, to be triple sure.

***

Six hours later they finally decelerate, which Peter has to announce over the intercom because Tony spent most of the time hiding in the little bunk area that passes for a bedroom, reading up on the equipment they’re about to fix, as if he doesn’t already have every bit of information memorized.

It really is a very simple mission. This is S.H.I.E.L.D.’s furthest space outpost (for now, though Tony suspects Fury has _plans_ ). It’s barely more than scaffolding holding sensors, scanning the universe for oncoming threats. The main power source and one of the sensors malfunctioned, probably knocked out of place by a random floating rock. They just need to get in, fix it, and get out. Training wheels for real space missions in the future. Tony’s fixed mechanical problems underwater, this is no different.

(Other than the part where if anything goes wrong the nearest lifeline is a million miles away but, no. Not going down that path again.)

He stretches, working out the kinks that formed after too many hours hunched over the books. Time for a spacewalk.

***

They stand at the edge of the open airlock, observing the metal structure floating below them. It’s big, five times the size of their ship, and yet it’s nothing compared to the unending emptiness around it.

“You can’t tell me this isn’t cool,” Peter says, and Tony can hear the smile in his voice behind the oxygen-rich safety of his Iron Spider mask. “Look at all those stars.”

“One day, your endless enthusiasm for everything is going to annoy someone,” Tony warns, but there’s no bite to it. Peter's right, there are a lot of stars, and if Tony doesn’t think about it too hard, they’re awfully pretty. “Okay, sightseeing over. Let’s get to it.”

“Last one there has to write the mission report!” Peter launches himself from the ship, diving at the structure below with a delighted holler. Tony follows, heart in his throat until he sees Peter catch a rung with his webs, pulling himself onto the floating tower with ease.

See? They’ve got this. Tony kicks his space-modified blasters into gear and rockets towards the damaged area. Last one there indeed. Iron Man can fly faster than Spider-Man can scamper. Time to remind the kid who’s boss.

By the time he hits his target—a fully thirty seconds before Peter gets there, take _that_ —he’s grinning into his mask, fear replaced by the fun of flying and the pleasure of finally being able to enjoy the company of one of his favorite people in the universe again.

***

Once the high of the race is over and they focus on the task at hand, they discover the damaged pieces are more than merely damaged. They’ve been ripped away entirely.

“That must’ve been some space-rock that hit this,” Tony muses, poking at frayed wires that used to hold cutting-edge technology in place. Good thing he insisted on bringing full replacements for all the broken components. Though apparently he hadn’t been paranoid enough. He’d been worried the pieces might be too difficult to fix in space. It hadn’t occurred to him they could be completely missing. “And sharp. See how cleanly these wires broke?”

“Yeah…” The eyes on Peter’s suit narrow as he peers closely. “Weird. And I don’t see any debris.”

They let that sit for a second. Tony shivers, even though there literally cannot have been a temperature change in his suit.

“Um,” Peter adds, “you don’t think it could’ve been…stolen? By like…aliens?”

“Not ruling it out,” Tony says tightly, glad for the lack of nuance in Iron Man’s external tone. No need to make anyone else nervous. “But if it was, whoever did the stealing is long gone. So back at it, Space Cowboy. No slacking.”

***

The work is natural. Not easy, exactly, but familiar in its strangeness. Sure, maneuvering the replacement parts in zero g is a new experience, but machines are machines. And Peter’s a joy to work with—smart, of course, and now with a dexterity of movement that takes Tony’s breath away. He’d always been good with the webs, but somewhere along the line good transformed into great. He loops in giant arcs around the observation station, launching and twisting and spinning at impossible speeds and yet always landing in exactly the right place. He creates delicate threads to keep pieces steady as they solder more permanent bindings. He catches a screwdriver Tony drops before it can float off.

He’s a marvel.

The simple pleasures of doing a job and watching Peter shine help sooth the anxiety that keeps spiking up through Tony’s lungs, threatening to break his concentration. In fact, he’s humming to himself, bringing AC/DC to space, when Peter—on one of his loops around the structure, checking for further damage—interrupts over the intercom. “Uh, Mr. Stark? I think I found something weird.”

 _Something weird_ , Tony discovers when he flies out to meet Peter, is a big yellow X across the tower’s power generator. They hadn’t noticed it before because they hadn’t come at it from this angle.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Tony says, earning a strained laugh from Peter. “I think we can now safely declare the observation system did not die of natural causes.”

“Yeah. But if someone was going to bother stealing that, why not take the generator, too? That’s a lot of energy.”

It’s a good question. “Too dangerous, maybe. You’d need specialized equipment to detach it without triggering an explosion.”

Which raises the question: why the X? Maybe it’s different in space, but normally—

“X marks the spot,” Peter voices out loud.

“Let’s get this wrapped up,” Tony says. “Come on, kid, we’re almost done.”

***

They aren’t done soon enough.

The ship appears out of nowhere, their only warning Peter faintly saying, “Something’s wrong” about five seconds before the hulking mass of a space vehicle comes into view—distant, but closing in fast.

“You should get those senses re-programmed,” Tony mutters. “Could’ve used more heads-up.”

The mechanical eyes of Peter’s suit blow to their largest setting. “Do you think those are the people who left the X?” he whispers as if the alien ship could possibly hear them.

Though, hell, what does Tony know? Maybe they can.

“Seems like a good bet.”

“What’re the chances they’re friendly?”

“The space pirates? I’m going to go with not high.”

Right on time to prove his point, their new definitely-not-friends start firing on their ship, hitting it with bolts of something blue and dangerous. Its outer lights ship flicker and die. That can’t be good.

“We have to get back,” Peter says, grabbing Tony’s wrist and shaking it. “We’ll run out of oxygen before a rescue team can get to us if we stay out here.”

Yeah, no kidding. As if Tony isn’t well aware that both of their suits can only keep them going for a few more hours.

He wraps his arm around Peter’s waist and, ignoring his surprised exclamation, jets them back to the ship, heart pounding loud in the empty silence of space.

***

They make it back onto the ship only to discover the controls are dead. The onboard computer helpfully explains they’ve been caught in a tractor beam.

“Great. Always wanted to live through _Star Wars_.” Tony points at Peter. “Okay, Scotty, you’re up. Did the raccoon cover what to do when someone is beaming you up?”

“Um. I—um. I can try...” Peter lets his helmet melt away and stares at the control panel, pulling a lever here, slamming a button there. No response on any of it. When he turns back to Tony, his eyes are wide with panic. Real panic, the kind that makes your mind go blank.

“I can’t—they’ve overridden everything, Mr. Stark. I don’t—I don’t know how—”

Tony lets his helmet de-materialize, too. “Kid, eyes on me.” Peter follows the instruction immediately. He’s close to tears. “Come on, think with me. All joking aside, they must’ve told you something about manual overrides, right?”

Peter’s eyebrows draw together. He bites his lip, shaking his head, but at least it’s an expression that suggests his brain is back on track.

“Kind of counting on you here, Pete.” Adding pressure might not be a good move right now, but time is rather clearly of the essence, and sometimes you need the outside kick in the butt to—

“Oh my god!” Peter’s entire face lights up. “Okay, yeah. I have an idea. Are there any screwdrivers left on board?”

There are several, and an assortment of other tools as well. Tony tosses them Peter’s way as Peter falls to the ground, prying a panel off the controls bank, rambling about rewiring, trying to explain his thinking so quickly his words stumble over each other.

“Just tell me what you need, Captain,” Tony reassures him. He glances at the window. The other ship looms, drawing closer inch by chilling inch. “This is your show.”

Peter works in silence for a little while. Well, near silence—Tony can hear him muttering under his breath as he maneuvers, fingers working almost as quickly as his words. Then his hand shoots out, making a grabbing motion.

“The one with the little head,” he demands without even looking in Tony’s direction. “And some wire cutters.”

Tony follows the instructions, a flutter of what can best be described as pride alighting somewhere behind his chest. Look at Peter, all grown up and—

The crackle of static interrupts his thoughts.

“Nice try,” a voice says over the intercom, its accent the bland nothing of the computer’s on-board translators.

Tony sees Peter look at the ceiling, confusion clear on his face. Then the ship rocks and Peter’s expression twists, contorting in pain. His gums draw back, baring his teeth; the entire Iron Spider lights up and then melts away as jolts of something electric fly through the panel and across Peter’s body.

Tony doesn’t think, just acts, blasting at the panel as he dashes across the room. It seems to work—or maybe the raider’s weapons are time limited. One way or the other, Peter slumps backwards, going limp, limbs sprawled and eyes closed.

Fuck. Fuck. No, not happening.

Tony is at Peter’s side instantly, suit dissolving away so he can press his fingers to his neck, searching desperately—and finding, thank everything—a pulse.

“You’re okay,” Tony whispers, gathering Peter into his arms with an urgency he hasn’t felt since—fuck, no, this isn’t Titan, it’s not the same. Peter’s breath is warm and steady against his neck as he holds him close, cradling his head. It’s okay, he’ll be fine in a second, he’s got superpowers, he’ll be okay—

“Hands in the air!” comes a voice.

Tony looks up. Great. Sometime in the last minute he’s been surrounded by enough aliens with guns that fighting his way out is a bad idea. Not with Peter incapacitated. Not with, as far as he can tell, their entire ship incapacitated.

Keeping Peter clutched to his chest with one hand, he raises the other. “Alright, alright, calm down. We surrender.”

***

The good news is their captors don’t seem particularly interested in the two of them. They have their ship and whatever else they’ve stripped from the station; Peter and Tony are just a bonus. The better news is Tony overhears a couple of the aliens contemplating selling them on some sort of black market.

Yeah, that’s not great, but given that they’re otherwise disposable, Tony has a feeling that the possibility they could fetch a few alien dollars is the only thing keeping them from being chucked out of the airlock. Being stripped of their suits, tossed in a cramped cell, and left alone isn’t the worst thing that could be happening to them right now.

Okay, okay, “good news” is highly relative. But he’s trying to look on the bright side here, because the alternative is a full meltdown and that won’t help anyone.

Their temporary abode doesn’t have a lot going for it, creature comforts wise. There are a couple of mats on the floor that apparently will have to do for beds, and that’s about it. At least there’s a small separate bathroom with a door. It’s something.

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony whips around to where he’s left Peter propped up in the corner on top of one of the mats. He’s blinking around the cell, face settling into a grimace as he registers the situation.

“Hey,” Tony says. He has the urge to cross what little space there is between them and gather Peter in his arms again, like he had on the ship, but that seems inappropriate now that the urgency of the moment is gone. Instead, he gives a little wave. “Welcome back. Things have taken a bit of a turn.”

“I picked up on that.” Peter makes a move that might be an attempt at standing, but immediately winces and slumps back, inhaling deeply. “What happened?”

“You were electrocuted, lots of little green men with guns, now we’re here. And I’m pretty sure if we’re still here by the time we hit another planet life is going to get very not fun for us, so I’m thinking an escape is in order. But that’s getting ahead of myself. How are you feeling?”

Peter stares, processing. He moves again, managing to sit straighter. “Electrocution is new,” he muses. “I should make a bingo card.” He gives Tony a smile that’s so fake it makes Tony ache in sympathy. “You already have a plan, right? Tell me.”

Tony shakes his head, crossing the cell and crouching to sit beside Peter, his own body groaning in protest as he leans against the wall. He was barely in a fight, but it’s been a long day—space flight isn’t nothing, and mechanical engineering always takes something out of him. Now that he’s allowing himself even this much of a break he can feel the ache deep in his muscles. Peter may have super-healing, but if you add electrocution and the fact that he was flying the damn ship for six hours, he must feel worse by an order of magnitude.

“The plan starts with getting some rest,” Tony declares. “You especially.”

Peter gives him a scandalized look. “I don’t need rest. You just said we have to get out of here before they hit another planet—”

“Which will probably take days.” Hopefully. If not, they’ll deal. “We can’t escape if you can’t stand up.”

“I can stand,” Peter protests, but makes absolutely no move to prove it. When Tony raises his eyebrows, Peter bows his head, accepting his fate with a nod. “Fine.”

“Okay, so back to the question, Buckaroo. Don’t think I missed you dodging the answer. How do you feel?”

Perhaps resigned that Tony isn’t going to give this up until he gets an answer, Peter closes his eyes for a few moments, as if taking stock of what’s going on with his body. “I mean, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. And, uh, what happened to my suit?”

Tony sighs, heart falling. He hadn’t been looking forward to confessing this specific failing. “The electrocution messed with the nanobots.” Which is something he should’ve accounted for. Not that he hadn’t accounted for electrocution generally, of course—he’s not an idiot—but clearly this was some kind of electromagnetic pulse situation, and he hadn’t thought—

He forces the self-pity down. His mouth is getting frustratingly dry. “They pulled it right off you. Me, too,” he adds, answering the unspoken question in Peter’s eyes. He doesn’t clarify that he handed his suit over willingly when an alien put a gun to Peter’s head. Peter would find a way to blame himself for that. “But it’s all good. We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay.” It does not sound like he actually thinks it’s okay. “No suits. Alien ship—”

“I’ve faced worse,” Tony cuts in, because that sentence is not going to end anywhere he likes.

“And won?”

“Wow.” He’s not wrong, but—wow. Now is not the moment Tony needs to be reminded of what happened last time he was in this situation. With his suit, no less. “Harsh, kid. That was a much scarier alien.”

“Sorry.” Peter’s voice catches as he shifts, left hand jumping to grip his right shoulder. He does a terrible job pretending not to wince. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, you did. But it’s fair.” Tony leans forward, trying to push Peter’s hand away so he can see what’s bothering him, but it doesn’t budge. “Come on, there are no secrets in space kidnapping. Let me see.”

Peter eyes him warily, then drops his hand. Tony grabs the edge of his shirt and pulls it aside. What he reveals makes him gag, all thoughts of Titan gone. A thin sheet of nanobots, clearly melted by the blast, is fused along Peter’s shoulder and down his back, like a second layer of skin. Around the edges of the metal Peter’s actual skin is red and raw; clearly, his healing powers have no idea how to handle the intrusion.

“What the fuck, Pete? You didn’t think to mention this sooner?”

“Sooner when? It’s been like ten seconds since I woke up. Besides, it’s—”

“Kid, I swear to god, if you say fine…” Tony digs his fingers into his own trembling wrist, willing himself not to yell. Or vomit. That would also be bad. “Can you even move the shoulder?”

Peter doesn’t have to answer out loud; it’s there the way he glances away, suddenly very interested in an empty wall.

“Okay, I revise the plan,” Tony says once he’s gathered himself enough to keep his tone something in the realm of calm and reassuring. Kind of. It’s about a seventy-percent success. “First, we fix this. Then rest. _Then_ escape. One, two, three. Easy.”

“How do we fix it?” Peter asks, sounding more resigned then pleased. “You don’t have the suit or anything.”

“Ye of little faith. Frankly, I’m offended. What happened to the wide-eyed kid who thought I could do no wrong?” As he says it, he brings his hand to his heart, flashing the watch sitting secure around his wrist.

Give him some credit. The bastards didn’t get _everything_.

Peter clocks the watch and grins—though it turns into a wince almost immediately. “Of course, you always have a backup plan. I forgot. It’s been a little while.”

Tony bites back a sarcastic reply, something about Peter laying off the guilt and hey, didn’t Tony earn a break by _saving the universe_ and _nearly dying_? Now is not the moment. “Take the shirt off and lean forward.”

Peter follows the instruction without further protest, flashing defined abs and a strong chest. Then he curls over his knees, hiding his front and bringing his injury back into sight. Which is probably a good thing, because the view of the rest of his body had been surprisingly appealing. Not that Tony wasn’t aware of Peter’s muscles—he built him a skin-tight suit, he’s well aware of every inch of him—but that was in a clinical sort of way, and his mental image of how the numbers translate to real life is two years out of date. Two years in which Peter apparently bulked up and broadened out, less a scrawny kid than the kind of young man a trashy romance novelist would probably refer to as _strapping_ —

He shakes his head and focuses on the injury, brushing that entirely unnecessary train of thought into a drawer in the back of his mind marked _Wow, that was weird, let’s not do that again_.

Focusing on the injury has its own downsides, like the nausea that swells again, threatening to overwhelm him. On closer inspection, the way Peter’s skin is melded to the melted bots is chilling—a robot-dystopian nightmare, the mass of scorched, twisted metal stretching from his arm down to his shoulder blade. The pain of it is clear in the way the skin blooms red and cracks around the edges of the metal, burn marks stretching out from the molten center.

Delicately, Tony brings his finger to a spot where metal meets skin: it’s warm, as if the electricity hasn’t escaped. Or, more likely, as if infection is already setting in. He presses a little harder, and Peter flinches away, sucking in air through his teeth.

Without comment, Tony powers up his watch, watching the minimal nanobots housed there swarm around his hand. This particular backup plan is geared more towards fighting than precision maneuvers; the watch is able to form a blaster, which he’ll be able to ratchet down enough to cauterize the wound, but what he really needs is a laser. No dice. Instead, he prompts the bots to form a knife. It was built for hand-to-hand fighting, but it will do as a scalpel.

“I’m going to test how deep this goes,” he tells Peter softly. “It’ll hurt, but not for long. Just scoping out the boundaries of the problem.”

Peter nods. Tony would prefer some kind of verbal affirmation, but the sweat around the kid’s forehead has gone from beaded to dripping and his skin is pale in a way that can only be described as clammy. Tony recognizes when shit sucks too much to do more than grit your teeth and bear it. No need to force him to form words.

Slowly, his hand goes to Peter’s shoulder. He positions the blade right at the edge of the melting of skin to metal, ready to cut. “Okay, I’m going to count down from three. Three, two, one—”

Blade slices under skin and Peter screams. His fist flies to his mouth to block the noise, but not well enough to prevent it from hitting Tony like a punch in the gut. His heart stutters to a stop, hand slipping as the reality of what he’s done slaps him in the face. God. Fuck. He’s supposed to do this again? He thinks he can cut this whole swath of metal away? Is he crazy?

A drop of blood wells up and bursts where he sliced. Tony has to close his eyes, which only makes Peter’s heavy panting more obvious. No. The longer he takes, the more pain Peter is in—this wound won’t heal until Tony fixes it. He doesn’t get to delay because he’s a coward who can’t stand to see Peter in pain. He’s in pain either way. At least this way it will be over.

Fighting against every instinct in his body, Tony forces his eyes open and returns to the injury, trying to stay detached as he examines it. Scientific. Just a broken machine that needs fixing. A machine of flesh, a machine that feels pain, a machine that’s _Peter_. Peter, who he’d promised himself he’d never let hurt again—

No. Focus. Scientific detachment. Turn off the feelings.

Fortunately, the layer of metal fused to Peter’s skin is thin, and now that Tony’s got a bit of it detached, it looks like he can pry it up and rip it off without taking too much flesh with it, if he’s careful. Peel it back bit-by-bit, then cauterize and let it rest.

“Like the world’s most painful Band-Aid removal,” he concludes after explaining the situation to Peter.

Peter takes the update stoically, not letting any of the fear he must be feeling— _must_ , or maybe Tony’s projecting—show on his face. “No offense, but you have a terrible bedside manner, Mr. Stark.”

“In my defense, not a doctor.”

“Very confidence-inspiring, when you’re about to operate on me.”

“Operation is a strong word.”

Peter rolls his eyes, then grabs his shirt from where it’s lying on the ground and stuffs it in his mouth. He somehow manages to look defiant as he does it, which is impressive.

He has a point. Tony probably _should_ be doing more to make this whole situation seem less dire. Though that’s a tough ask when he’s about to perform minor surgery in the middle of an unsterile prison cell.

When he puts it that way, no wonder they’re both so on edge.

Tentatively, he places his hand in the middle of Peter’s back, away from the injury. His skin is soft, but under that his muscles tense with pain, his whole body throbbing with it.

“Okay, Pete, take a deep breath.”

Peter tilts his head, eyes sharp with confusion. But he can’t talk through the shirt, which means he can’t argue.

“Seriously, trust me on this. Come on, deep breath.” Tony demonstrates, and on his second breath Peter joins him. They repeat it, breath after breath, until Tony can feel his own fear loosening around the edges.

Showtime.

“Keep that up,” he instructs, as he leans in to start his work. “You’re doing great.”

***

It’s hell. There’s no other way to describe listening to Peter’s muffled shouts, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the sight—god the _sight—_ of flesh coming away on metal.

Hell for _Tony_ ; it’s gotta be worse than that for Peter. But he doesn’t complain, doesn’t tell Tony to stop, doesn’t even pull away. His eyes fill with tears, his free hand pounds at the ground, punching over and over until the rock that lines the bottom of their cell cracks under the force of his suffering, and yet—he takes it.

Astonishing.

Tony wishes he had a third hand, something he could use to pet Peter’s hair or stroke his back, some way to try to bring a little comfort into the situation. But he needs both his hands for what he’s doing. He settles on words as the best he has to offer, whispering as he works: “You’re doing great, you’ve got this, you’re killing it, kid. You’re incredible.”

He’s not sure Peter can hear him over the sound of his screams.

***

Tony could not tell you how long it takes to scrape all the metal away, not even with a gun to his head. It feels like an hour, five hours, eternity. But it does end. He retracts the knife with a sigh.

“Okay, all gone,” he reports.

Peter looks over at him with weary eyes. His cheeks are wet. He doesn’t so much as move to take the t-shirt out of his mouth, just heaves, body shuddering with every breath.

Tony should keep pressing through. They can’t afford to wait long to cauterize the wound. But he can’t stop himself from reaching out to wipe Peter’s cheeks dry on the sleeve of his tracksuit.

“You’re amazing,” he tells him, fingers lingering on his cheek even after they’re dry. “A real trooper.”

Peter makes an expression that might be an attempt at a smile around the shirt in his mouth. Encouraged, Tony flattens his palm, spreading his fingers, touching as much of Peter’s face as he can. Peter leans into it. He makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, eyes closing.

“I mean it,” Tony adds. “You never cease to exceed all my expectations. And they’re high expectations. Really, pretty unreasonable. I’m basically setting you up for failure, and yet—”

He shrugs, and drops his hand, not quite sure how to finish the thought. Peter’s eyes fly open and he reaches out with his free arm, fingers catching the edge of Tony’s sleeve before squeezing his wrist. He gives a thumbs up: _I’m okay_.

Truly astonishing.

Tony hits a few buttons on his mini-gauntlets and watches it transform into a blaster. “Okay, last step. It’s gonna hurt, but then we’re done. Can you do this for me?”

Peter throws his head back, looks at the ceiling for a long moment, then nods.

***

When the heat of the blaster hits his shoulder, he yells so loud the t-shirt falls out of his mouth.

***

For lack of a better option, Tony uses that same t-shirt to wipe down the wound after, then wraps it, awkwardly. It probably won’t provide much—any—protection, but it feels wrong to leave the swath of angry red welt exposed.

Peter watches this all silently, swaying slightly. Once everything is in place, he drags his eyes from his crudely bandaged shoulder back to Tony’s face. “That’s really not very hygienic, Mr. Stark,” he murmurs, before slumping against Tony’s chest.

“Okay, you’re okay,” Tony reassures him, bringing a hand to rest in his hair. He scratches at his scalp, a light touch that he hopes will be reassuring. “You did great. I’m really proud of you.”

Peter groans and nuzzles against Tony’s body. “Don’t be condescending, Mr. Stark,” he says, voice little more than a whisper. “I’m not a little kid.”

“I—what? I’m just trying to be nice here, Pete. Honestly.”

“Mmm, okay.” Peter manages to sound skeptical even as his words slur. “Then can I—can I just—if I just stay like...”

He goes slack.

“Pete?” Tony prods after a minute of silence, but there’s no response. He tries shaking him— _very_ gently—but that just earns a low whimper and a confused little wrinkle between Peter’s eyebrows.

Well, fine. Tony settles back against the wall, making himself as comfortable as he can be with an armful of bloodstained, shirtless teenager. Which is, if he’s being entirely honest with himself, probably a bit too comfortable. There’s something reassuring about the heavy press of Peter’s body against his.

He should try to stay awake, but as soon as he lets himself relax a little the adrenaline crash is irresistible. He falls asleep with his face buried in Peter’s hair, clinging to the solid proof that he’s still here.

***

At some point in the middle of the night, Tony comes to in the dark, with Peter trembling in his arms, making pained sniffling sounds like he’s crying. His hands clutch Tony’s jacket, so tight he can feel his nails digging into his skin.

“Pete?”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says immediately, trying to pull away. “I didn’t mean to wake you up, I’m sorry. I’ll get up.”

“Don’t be silly.” Tony drags him closer, one hand going to rub his lower back, the other resting gently on his neck. To his relief, Peter sags into the touch rather than continuing to fight to get up. “Does it hurt?”

Peter nods, jerky. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” Tony squeezes Peter’s neck. “Breathe with me again. Remember from before? Come on. Breathe and relax.”

Despite the fact that hearing Peter cry makes him want to do anything _but_ relax, Tony forces himself to follow his own advice. Set a good example and all that. In and out, over and over, until the rise and fall of Peter’s back gets steady and the sniffles trail off.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter whispers after a few minutes.

Tony, who had been starting to drift off again, blinks himself back to the present. “Mmm?”

“I really missed you.”

Fuck. That’s probably not intended to make Tony feel guilty, but it does. He cards his hands into Peter’s hair, as if that can compensate for anything. “Same, kid.”

Peter presses closer, loosening his death grip on Tony’s jacket and smoothing down his chest. “Please don’t leave me again,” he murmurs. “I know this mission isn’t going well, but...please? Stay on the team?”

Honestly, the thought of ditching the Avengers over this hadn’t crossed Tony’s mind. He might insist on a little more vetting before the next space mission—oh, who is he kidding, he’s definitely insisting on a _lot_ more vetting—but leave the team? No way. He spent the last two years working on recovering exactly so he could be here, doing this again. Well, not exactly _here_ , and ideally not ever performing emergency surgery on Peter again, but the point stands.

“I’m not going anywhere, kid,” he promises. “I’m sticking around so hard you’ll get sick of me.”

He can feel Peter smile against his chest. “I could never get sick of you, sir.”

Tony is way too tired to try to contemplate why such a simple statement makes his heart skip a beat. Instead, he whispers, “Go to sleep, Pete. Doctor’s orders.”

He starts his deep breathing again, and is pleased when Peter follows his lead without being told. Over and over, until they both melt away into unconsciousness.

***

The next time he wakes is with a start, heart spiking at the discovery of empty arms. An empty cell, too.

“Pete?” he shouts, too loud for the circumstances, but he can’t help it. If they took him while Tony was asleep—

His panic is headed off by the sound of splashing water from behind the bathroom door. A moment later, Peter emerges, still shirtless, wiping his wet hands on his jeans. There are dark circles under his eyes and a pattern of faded bruises down his right side, but he’s in one piece.

“I’m right here, Mr. Stark,” he says, with a reassuring tone that suggests he understands all too well exactly the kinds of worst case scenarios Tony jumped to. “Sorry to scare you.”

“You didn’t—” Tony starts, but he pulls himself up short. It’s stupid to deny the obvious. “Okay, you did. But you’re here, so we’re all good.” He crooks his finger, gesturing Peter over. “Let me see that shoulder.”

He expects Peter to protest, after how resistant to help he was yesterday, but he just shrugs and comes to sit cross-legged in front of Tony, back to him. He tilts his head to give a better view.

Something about the gesture, the utter trust in it, makes Tony’s stomach flip. Or maybe that’s the expanse of smooth skin it exposes—skin that runs tight over defined muscles that are a lot harder to ignore when Tony’s not focused on emergency surgery.

(So much for the _let’s not do that again_ label on the drawer in the back of his mind.)

He forces himself to focus on Peter’s wound. The swath of skin is red and raised, inflamed, but a lot less gnarly than last night. He gently brushes his fingers over the edge of the raised tissue; Peter shivers but doesn’t flinch away.

“How’s it feel?” Tony asks. “Can you move okay?”

Peter nods, rotating his shoulder back and then forward to demonstrate. It makes the muscles along his back ripple and flex. “I can manage. Mostly I’m cold. I tried washing my shirt in the sink, but I kinda made a mess.”

Right. How had Tony not thought of that? Fortunately, he’s wearing an undershirt beneath his basic tracksuit. He shrugs the jacket off in an instant, holding it up. “Here.”

“You don’t have to.” But despite the protest, Peter takes the jacket, swiveling to face Tony as he pulls it on and zips it closed. “Thanks.”

It’s slightly too big on him, sleeves coming down around his fingers. It’s adorable. Which—fine. Okay. Tony is going to accept this is a path his brain has chosen to go down and ignore it, for now. They have more pressing concerns.

“So, not to continue the terrible bedside manner, but do you think you’re ready for an escape attempt? Because I’m not sure we have time for a convalescence here, and the amenities in this hospital are atrocious.”

Peter nods, solemn. He pulls the jacket tighter around himself. It almost looks like he’s getting comfort out of it. Probably it’s just nice for him to have something to wear again. “Do you have a plan?”

Oh yeah, that.

“If I say, ‘Unlock the door with my watch, sneak out, and hope for the best,’ are you going to tell me that’s not a real plan?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s definitely not a real plan.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Tony spreads his hands, helpless. “We could break apart the bathroom door and use the nails from the hinges as weapons if that makes you feel better.”

It says something about how serious the situation is that Peter doesn’t look even a little amused. “It doesn’t.”

“Well then, I’m kind of out of ideas here. You?”

“Uh, actually.” Peter glances at the ground, almost apologetic. “I kinda do?”

***

Turns out Peter was awake for longer than Tony thought. Long enough to work out that guards come by once every two hours or so—“I mean, I had to guess, but I kind of played movies in my head?”—and, even more impressively, which direction they can go to find their ship.

“How can you possibly know that?” Tony asks, startled, when Peter explains they need to take a left once they leave their cell.

“I can hear it. They have the engine up and running. I think it must be some kind of hangar bay? Pretty sure it’s only a few corridors away. There’s a couple people working on it, though, so we might have to fight our way through them.”

It’s tossed off casually, but Tony doesn’t miss Peter’s small smile or his sideways glance, trying to suss out if Tony’s impressed.

(He is, he’s very impressed. Maybe also a little frightened.)

“Okay, there’s no way Steve or Sam taught you that. Who was it? Nat?”

“Daredevil, actually.”

“The wack job in Hell’s Kitchen? You know him?” Not for the first time on this trip, Tony is struck by how much he apparently missed. He’s surprised that it stings as much as it does. “How—no, we can talk about that later. Let’s figure out the rest of this plan.”

***

Peter’s new _super_ -super hearing—which, _Daredevil_? Tony has so many questions—proves very useful. He somehow manages to pinpoint a moment where there is no one in the corridors between them and the ship. It’s easy work to break the cell door open, and although Peter has a slight limp that makes Tony want to call the whole thing off for another day, they make their way through the empty halls easily enough. It’s practically a hop, skip, and a jump until they’re in a wide hanger deck, just like Peter predicted. Their ship is there, door open, deck down, ready for the taking, also just like Peter predicted.

Unfortunately, he’s three-for-three with the predictions, and they’re faced with four very scary-looking mechanics milling around outside the ship.

Okay, correction: the mechanics aren’t scary on their own. Basically humanoid, with varying degrees of bizarrely colored skin, and one dude has a tail. All things considered, not much to write home about. Their guns on the other hand? Yeah, the guns aren’t great. What kind of mechanics carry around what look like electrically powered Uzis?

“Don’t you think this is overkill, guys?” Peter quips before leaping into action without warning, springing from the floor to high on the side of the ship, then dropping on one of the baddies in an instant, knocking him out cold.

“Yeah, bet you didn’t expect that,” Tony says as he powers up his blaster and knocks a second guy back, sending him flying until he hits a wall with a groan.

The other two start waving their guns, firing indiscriminately. Tony drops and rolls, ducking behind an extraneous chunk of metal. An extra wing from some ship, maybe. Doesn’t matter—it’s enough to provide cover. He rises up, throwing another blaster shot at their enemies, but misses by an embarrassingly wide margin.

Peter, at least, is safely out of the way, leaping from spot to spot faster than the aliens can follow—though Tony doesn’t miss him saying “ouch” as he makes a particularly harsh landing.

“Pete, be careful!” Tony shouts, before trying another failed shot at one of the guys.

“I got this, Mr. Stark!” Peter replies, voice cracking a little as he ducks another round of bullets. “Go figure out how to open the hangar doors so we can get out of here!”

“Pete, no—” Abandoning Peter to fight against two armed aliens was _not_ part of the plan. Not when he’s not at one-hundred. Not when any mistake could mean—

“More people are coming! I can hear them! Come _on,_ Mr. Stark.”

“But—”

“Trust me. _Please_.”

Third time’s the charm, right? Tony takes another shot—a miss.

“Fuck. Fine,” he agrees. “But you’re getting a lecture about this later.”

He glances around and—there. On a far wall there’s a panel that looks promising.

He runs.

***

The promising panel works.

Tony wishes he could say he brings his mechanical genius to bear to figure it out, but honestly, he just hits a lot of buttons until lights start flashing and the doors to the hangar give a loud crack, like a seal being broken.

Which is when he realizes that if he’s done this right, those doors are about to open to the vacuum of space and he doesn’t have his suit. Add two and two together, and there’s only one result: he has to get back to the ship, now.

He can only hope Peter holds up his end of the bargain.

***

As he sprints back to their craft, Tony sees three aliens sprawled on the ground, their guns tossed aside. Add that to the one he knocked across the room earlier, and it looks like Peter got the job done. He scrambles up the entry ramp to their ship and hits the button to close the door. Under his feet, the ship comes to life, trembling as it begins to lift from the ground.

As the door slips shut, Tony spots another crew of aliens bursting into the hangar, guns blazing.

“Too late,” he shouts, flipping them off. Bastards.

***

He doesn’t make it five steps down the hall before the ship lurches, sending him stumbling into the wall. _Hyperdrive_. He smiles. They did it.

Then the ship lurches again, and he falls straight on his ass.

“I’m glad Peter wasn’t here to see that,” he comments to no one in particular. He stays down, letting the feeling of safety wash over him. That fucking sucked, but they got out, they got away, and everything is fine.

“We make a good team,” he adds. Still no one to hear. He’s probably gotten a little too used to having an A.I. to chat with at all times. He looks at his watch, as if it contains F.R.I.D.A.Y. even this far from home. “So, do we think I need to worry about the fact that the idea of Peter seeing me fall makes me feel bad for reasons that I don’t think are mentorly pride?”

The watch, unsurprisingly, does not have an answer.

“Cool, good talk.” Tony bangs the back of his head against the ship’s metal wall. Of all the things he worried about with this mission, this was not one of them.

***

He rests for a few more minutes. Not enough time to sort through his feelings, not even close, but it is enough to let them drift off to the background, leaving the excitement of getting out of a tough spot front and center. That seems like much safer territory.

Time for the victory lap.

“Good job, kid!” he exclaims as he bursts into the cockpit. “I was going to be mad about you taking those guys on by yourself, but you obviously had it covered so—”

Peter is slumped over the controls, head in hands.

Well, fuck.

“Pete? Are you okay?”

Peter grimaces as he looks up, which means he is very much not okay. But when he speaks, it’s not to complain about physical injury.

“The engine’s compromised,” he explains, sounding absolutely miserable. “I managed to jump us away, but we’re stuck now.”

“Okay,” Tony says slowly, willing himself not to panic. This is what he gets for preemptively celebrating. “Do we need to figure out how to fix it?”

“What? Oh, no.” Peter rubs his hand over his eyes. “No, the radio is fine, I contacted Fury. Captain Marvel is going to come get us. We’re stuck here for like...twelve hours? But it should be fine. The shields are up.”

“Rescued by Ms. Glowy-fists. Talk about déjà vu.” Calmer, Tony grabs the free seat and takes a moment to look Peter over. At least he appears to have made it out of the fight without a bullet wound. “So why the long face? Don’t tell me the prospect of spending more time with me is that awful.”

“No, obviously not. I just. _Fuck_.” Peter slides low in the chair, spreading his legs wide: a portrait of over-dramatic dejection. “This was an important mission, Mr. Stark.”

Seriously? This is about the _mission_? The mission to replace a few broken parts? “Not to burst your bubble, kid, but it was basically maintenance work. Not exactly save-the-world stuff.”

It’s supposed to make Peter feel better, but based on his sour expression it didn’t do the trick.

“Yeah, it was simple, and I couldn’t even do _that_ right.” He rolls his head to look straight at Tony, eyes sparkling. “Maybe you don’t know because you’ve been gone, but this was my first official mission. Steve wouldn’t let me until I graduated. ‘Focus on school, kid.’ As if I couldn’t do both.”

Tony hadn’t known, which makes him feel like a jerk. “If you’d told me, I would’ve brought champagne.”

“To celebrate my complete failure?”

Oh. That’s what they’re dealing with. He should’ve guessed. “Kid, you weren’t a failure. At all.”

“We didn’t finish fixing the station, we damaged the ship, and we need to be rescued,” Peter lists, counting off on his finger. “Tell me one way this mission wasn’t a total disaster.”

“We’re both alive.”

Tony didn’t mean it like that—he really didn’t. But as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows the only thing either of them are thinking about is Titan. Again. No way that’s helpful.

“Yeah, well, if that’s the best I can do, maybe I don’t belong on the team.” Peter sounds so small, all of a sudden, defeated.

“Pete, that’s not what I meant.”

“Maybe not.” He shrugs and then cringes, hand going to his injured shoulder. “But it’s what you said. And you’re not wrong.”

“Kid—”

Peter laughs, but there’s no humor to it. “You know why I volunteered to be one of the people Rocket trained?”

Tony reaches back in his memory, trying to recall what Peter told him when he first went into training. He remembers how excited he’d been, beaming about the new development at their monthly lab session. That was back during the depth of Tony’s physical therapy, when he was spending most days hopped up on maybe more than the prescribed number of painkillers, so the details are fuzzy. “ _Star Wars_ , right?”

“Sure, that’s what I said. But even I’m not _that_ nerdy. I had actual reasons.”

Tony gestures for him to continue, curious where this is going, and how it connects to Peter’s complete overreaction to their minor kidnapping detour.

“I thought if I had this special skill, something not everyone had time to learn, then I’d be really valuable, you know? Like maybe it would get the rest of the team to see me as an adult. An equal. And I wanted to impress you, when you came back. I wanted to prove—” He shakes his head, eyes dropping to the ground. “Man, I don’t know. That I wasn’t just some kid you had to take care of anymore.”

Tony doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. Which probably isn’t fair, but, hey, no one ever accused him of being good at dealing with other people’s emotions.

“Stupid, right? I probably should stick to the _Star Wars_ excuse.” Peter sighs, rubbing the heel of his palms into his eyes. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I should probably take a nap or something.”

“Probably,” Tony agrees. “But can I check up on that shoulder first?”

Peter shakes his head, mouth twisting. Then he stands, wobbling and unsteady. “I told you, Mr. Stark, I don’t need you to take care of me. Come get me if anything goes wrong.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Tony with the sinking feeling that he somehow failed a test he didn’t know he was taking.

***

Tony stares at the stars for a while. Surprisingly, it doesn’t give him anxiety. Maybe because he has too much else to be anxious about.

Eventually, he nods off in the co-pilot seat, cramped, uncomfortable, and too confused to keep his mind going.

***

The first thing he does when he wakes up is check in on Peter, who’s asleep on the ship’s one cot, sprawled on his stomach, arms akimbo. Tony hovers at the door, watching. With his mind still gummy from sleep, he can’t prevent the thought from sticking:

He’s really, really adorable.

And Tony really, really liked falling asleep with him in his arms last night.

Fuck.

“I definitely don’t see you as a kid anymore, Pete,” he mutters, before turning away.

***

He doesn’t see Peter as a kid, but that doesn’t mean he can’t take care of him. Not that the ship has much in the way of niceties, but he scrounges up an energy bar, a bottle of water, and an ice pack. It’s something.

He gives Peter another half hour, then returns to the bunk. He’s already awake, sitting on the edge of the cot, eyes downcast, rubbing at his shoulder.

“Knock, knock,” Tony says when he gets to the doorway.

Peter glances up. At least he no longer looks on the verge of tears. “You know I could hear you walk up, right? You don’t have to knock.”

“I was being polite.” Tony holds up his offerings. “It’s not taking care of you,” he adds before Peter can protest. “It’s...being helpful. Can I please be helpful for my teammate? It would make me feel better.”

When Peter doesn’t say no, Tony takes that as an invitation. He joins Peter on the cot, sitting just far enough that their legs don’t brush. Probably still closer than is strictly necessary, but, hey. Peter doesn’t move, so he must not mind. He takes the energy bar, and Tony puts the water and the ice pack on the ground.

“Speaking of hearing me...about that Daredevil thing. Care to explain?”

Peter stares blankly at the bar in his hand, like he’s too tired to figure out what to do with it. “Uh. We met taking down the same gang. He kind of took me under his wing, I guess? He knows a lot about how to use heightened senses.”

“He’s enhanced, too?”

“Kind of.” Peter turns the bar over, absentminded. “Anyway, it was useful.”

Tony takes the bar back, rips the wrapping off, then returns it to Peter’s hands. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Peter shrugs. He takes a bite of the bar, then another, quickly wolfing the whole thing down. Tony can see the difference immediately; he sits straighter, looks less like a wrung out rag. He must’ve been starving.

“Keeping secrets from me now, Parker? I’m hurt.” He means it as a joke but also...not. Not entirely.

Peter reaches for the water, brushing Tony’s ankle as he grabs it from beside his feet. “You were busy.”

Ouch. _Again_. Well, now’s probably as good a time as any to address that particular elephant in the room. “I didn’t realize you were upset about that. I’m sorry if you felt like I was ignoring you.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Pete, you keep bringing it up. Give me some credit here.”

The water bottle gives a loud snap as Peter unscrews the cap. He takes a long drink before answering. “I’m _not_ upset. I get it. But you were MIA for two years, Mr. Stark. Things change. _I_ changed. I just...I didn’t want you to think I’m sixteen anymore.”

“I know you’re not sixteen anymore.”

Peter tosses the bottle between his hands, considering it. Or maybe considering his next words, because it’s a whole lot of consideration for a water bottle.

Finally, pointedly, he says, “So I heard.”

“So you—” Oh. He hadn’t been asleep. He’d heard Tony’s little whisper, and now he’s bringing it up. In the context of not wanting Tony to think of him as a kid.

A lot of things are falling into place very quickly.

“Um,” Tony says, dumbfounded.

Without warning, Peter unzips the jacket he’s still wearing— _Tony’s_ jacket, which suddenly feels significant. He lets it fall halfway off, revealing the top of his chest and the slope of his shoulders.

“Pete?”

Peter points at the ice pack. “You wanted to help, right? Well, my shoulder hurts, my neck feels like it’s been knocked out of place, my entire body is sore. So, help.”

Tony’s mouth suddenly feels dry. If he’s not reading this situation entirely wrong, that might have been a proposition of sorts.

Or maybe not. Maybe he’s seeing what he wants to see.

Either way, he does want to help in a literal way, completely unconnected to that drawer in the back of his mind that is clearly not closing again anytime soon, and Peter’s injured shoulder is still red and angry-looking. He picks up the ice pack and puts it over the most inflamed spot. Peter hisses when the cold hits his skin, but doesn’t complain.

Hesitant, not sure if it’s the right move, Tony grabs Peter’s left hand, lifting it from his side and placing it over the pack. “If you hold that in place, I can try to deal with your neck.”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter says softly. It definitely sounds like an invitation.

He lets Tony reposition him so that he’s sideways on the bed, giving better access. Wishing he’d brought himself a water bottle, too, Tony brings his hands to the base of Peter’s neck. He presses lightly, feeling knots. Several knots. Large knots.

“Ouch,” he says in sympathy. “Is this from the electrocution?”

Peter shakes his head. “I may have...landed on the last guy a little weirdly.”

“Why do I have a feeling that’s an understatement?” Tony repositions his thumbs, pressing into tight muscle with intention. Peter sucks in a harsh breath. “Too much?”

“No, that feels really good. Can you keep doing it?”

“Wouldn’t be much help if I didn’t.”

They slip into silence as Tony focuses on the work, trying to drag up the techniques Nat taught him, years ago, back during the Avengers 1.0 era. Maybe he’ll ask her to teach him again now that the gang’s back together, because he’s pretty sure he’s not doing it right. Though based on Peter’s heavy breathing, he can’t be too far off the mark. His skin is starting to get hot under Tony’s hands, a flush running down his back, and Tony can feel his muscles smooth out, relaxing.

Which. Damn. Tony really needs that water. And something else to think about. He rewinds his own thoughts, searching for another topic. Massages, Nat, the gang...

The gang. Yeah, they should probably talk about that.

“You know, I meant it when I said you weren’t a failure,” Tony says, slowly. He feels Peter tense up under his hands, shoulders raising. “The mission went to shit, but that wasn’t your fault. Fury and co. should’ve realized there were possible hostiles. We were unprepared.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Yeah but nothing. Pete, you did great.”

Peter shakes his head. “I couldn’t do the manual override fast enough—”

“Could anyone?”

“Okay, maybe not, but then I was injured! If you hadn’t been there...”

“And if _you_ hadn’t been there, I would’ve been killed halfway down the hall to the ship.”

Tony stops the massage in favor of running his fingers into the curls at the base of Peter’s neck. He tilts forward, letting his nose brush the top of Peter’s head. When Peter doesn’t move away, he stays there. He smells like blood and sweat, but also like _Peter_. It’s deeply comforting.

“Pete, you were the one with the plan. And you were the one who took down the bad guys. You were the hero in this story, I was the sidekick. So if you were a failure, I was a failure. Are you calling Iron Man a failure?”

“You’re not my sidekick, Mr. Stark. That’s silly.”

“Teammate, then. Equal. Fifty-fifty. Point stands.”

Peter makes a noncommittal noise, unconvinced.

Tony tries to come up with another argument, but if the “you’re insulting Iron Man” angle didn’t do it, he’s not sure words will work here. Also: he’s officially had his nose pressed into Peter’s hair for a lot longer than is appropriate, and Peter still hasn’t moved. Which almost certainly means he wasn’t reading this wrong before.

Put two and two together...

Some distant, logical part of his brain tells him he’s probably too tired to process this properly. That the two of them have had a rough couple of days and should not be making rash decisions. That he hadn’t even seen Peter the way he’s seeing him now until yesterday. Or if he had, he hadn’t realized it, and isn’t this something he should think over first?

A far more fun part of his brain has a great idea for how to make Peter feel better.

Gently, slowly enough that Peter can figure out what’s happening and stop him if he wants to, Tony dips his head, bringing his lips to the side of Peter’s neck. He hovers. Peter doesn’t stop him, so he places the lightest kiss he can.

Peter’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t protest, so Tony does it again, a little firmer this time. And again, letting his lips linger. Peter tastes like salt and dust, but Tony doesn’t care, because he can feel Peter’s body relaxing with each kiss, his breath speeding up. It makes Tony warm, lightheaded. Not with arousal—though that’s there somewhere, dampened by exhaustion but not stamped out—but affection.

“This why you wanted me to realize you’ve changed?” he asks, low, licking the shell of Peter’s ear and drinking in the whine he gets in response. “Why you kept mentioning how long it’s been?”

“Uhh.” Peter’s voice tremors, overwhelmed. “Yeah. Yeah, that about sums it up.”

He moves to Peter’s shoulder, skating kisses across the expanse of it. “I realized. I definitely realized.”

Peter sighs, then laughs. No, giggles. Giggles is the word. “No shit.”

God, was he always so sassy?

Did Tony always love it this much?

Tony brings his arms around Peter’s body, hugging him from behind. He presses their cheeks together. “So, ready to admit this mission wasn’t a total failure?”

Peter smiles—Tony can feel it against his cheek as much as see it. “Depends.”

“On?”

“What happens when I do this.”

Peter turns his head, planting an awkward kiss at the side of Tony’s mouth. Tony tilts to meet him, transforming it into a real kiss, soft and sweet and—

And _wow_.

It’s the kind of kiss that makes Tony think an impulsive decision in space might go somewhere. The kind of kiss that takes the pain and the stress and the days—years—of missing each other, and makes them all worth it, because they led to this kiss. The kind of kiss that makes him think cheesy crap like that and mean it.

This is why he does impulsive things. Impulses are great.

The kiss only ends because they’re both smiling too hard to keep it up.

“Well?” Tony asks.

Peter beams at him. “Yeah, the mission wasn’t a total failure.”

***

Peter eventually insists they go back to the cabin to make sure nothing has gone wrong while they’ve been busy revolutionizing their relationship. He checks the controls and radios into Fury to confirm help is still on the way, which gives Tony the opportunity to ask, “We’re not fired, are we?”

Fury’s sigh is audible across the radio. “If I fired one of you every time something went wrong, I’d have no team left.”

“See?” Tony says as Peter shuts the radio off. “You’re golden.”

In response, Peter pushes Tony into the captain’s chair, crawls into his lap, and pulls him into a deep kiss. Assertive. Tony likes it. But the effect is broken a few moments later when Peter yawns right in Tony’s face. Smiling sheepishly and muttering an apology, he curls down against Tony’s chest instead.

Good thing Tony likes that, too. He places a protective hand on Peter’s back, below where he knows his shoulder must still be throbbing. 

Peter sighs, nose rubbing at Tony’s chest. “Hold me while we watch the stars?” 

“Mmm,” Tony agrees, bringing his free hand up to stroke Peter’s cheek. “Though I’m warning you, if this is all an attempt to get me to like space, it’s not going to work.”

But as Peter drifts off in his arms, he has to admit: it’s beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is loved!


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